Where Do I Begin?

I was parked on the side of a road, walking along the back of a guardrail. Rush hour hadn’t begun, so the road was relatively quiet, but there were still clumps of cars and trucks passing from time to time. And, from time to time, one of the passing muggles, seeing me out there on the side of the road, would wave, and I would wave back. The cache—a key box on the rail—was easy enough to find, and as I was signing the logbook, I thought, How could I ever explain to the nice muggles who had seen me what I was doing out there? Luckily, the heat has been less oppressive lately (only 80s and 90s), so fewer people probably thought I was insane for being out there. Still, I have no doubt that their smiles and waves obscured their questions.

I sometimes wonder what muggles think when they pass us by. I know we have our run-ins with them already, no matter how good (or bad) our stealth turns out to be. Usually, when I’m in a group, I let other people do the talking. Muggles tend to be more receptive to people who look like them, even more so to women. Add in that I have a natural (for lack of a better term) antagonism in such situations, and I’m not your guy for that. But I know that sometimes when we get seen, there’s no direct confrontation. I wonder what goes through the muggle mind then? If you had asked me years ago, I probably would have said “Nothing good.” I could easily imagine some lookie-loo deciding to point cops toward me. I’m not altogether sure it didn’t already happen without me knowing. Now it’s less of a concern. I think the reality of someone who looks like me merely existing in the world doesn’t garner the attention it once did.

More than anything, though, I have come to realize how self-centered people are. I don’t mean that as any kind of insult. I’m often guilty of it myself. But people just tend to zone out what doesn’t concern them. I used to think that people without imagination don’t look up. I was partially wrong about that. It’s not about imagination. We know the sun (or the ceiling) is up there, so what need is there to look? Sometimes we look (when it’s raining, perhaps), but there is usually little need. We, as cachers, differ because something we need is frequently up in a tree. But we only differ from muggles because we are initiated into our hidden world. It’s our secret that separates us. But even my jaded self thinks it’s nice to pull back the curtain for a moment, to receive a wave and a smile, and to return them. Sure, we’re different, but the only real difference is that key box in my hand.